A Housemaid's Tale
by Thalaba
Summary: These are a series of stories centered around the character Mary Reilly and are influenced by both the movie and book. I thought this would be the best category to place it in. Warnings: Sexual content blood play other character involvement.
1. Little Girl Lost

**Characters:** Mary, Mrs. Swit  
**Summary:**Mary meets her first head maid  
**Author's Notes: I do not own Mary Reilly, Doctor Jekyll or any other characters created by either Valerie Martin or R.L.Stevenson.**

She was such a little child, looking no more than eight though she was almost an adolescent. Her stringy auburn hair was clean, but hanging about her shoulders it merely seemed to emphasize the hallows of her sad brown eyes. The marks upon her throat were red and raw and angry but no such emotions crossed her brow. Her answers were soft and polite as if entering strange homes was nothing new and not worthy of excitement, but when Mrs. Swit dismissed the apple-cheeked nurse sent by the school to escort the child her face fell.

Mrs Swit could not fail to notice and therefore gave the girl a warm smile and offered out her hand.

"You are going to stay here with me for a while Mary. We should get along quite well."

For a moment it seemed her weak chin would disappear into her chest but instead she gave one good nod.

"Yes Ma'am."


	2. Wants, Needs, Beliefs

**Genre:** General  
**Rating:** G  
**Summary:** This conversation led to Mary leaving her last residence and ultimately to finding work with Mr. Mansfield.  
**Additional Notes: **This is my vision of Mary's earlier years for the purpose of using her in an RPG. She never meets Dr. Jekyll in **this** story. The numbers in Part Two don't refer to any specific days, it's just the chronological order of the story.

**Part One:**

"Do you like books Mary ?"

She was a few days shy of her fifteenth birthday, thin and gawky—traits she would never lose in womanhood—and now Madame Urquhart's son was addressing her. He had recently returned home after his first term at King's College, his blond curls desperately in need of a barber, or so Madame had teasingly informed him after her warm welcome. His cheeks had filled out since the last time she had seen him, and after some nights of restful sleep he didn't seem as tired or sallow as he had that first evening.

"Yes sir."

She had been polishing the filigreed silver when he entered the kitchen but his presence required her to cease and stand. Her hands were stained and she tried to hide them in the folds of her apron without seeming to be hiding anything at all. It was a simple, straightforward question but even so it surprised the young maid. She could hear the scullery girls whispering in the next room. He probably could as well.

"Come up to the library after dinner then. I've found one that may interest you."

"Yes sir. Thank you sir."

He left and the giggling began in earnest. Mary shushed the younger servers once and returned to the cutlery, a blush spreading across her pale face. The sounds faded and she picked up a fork to resume her duties.

"Don't you four have potatoes to peel ?"

**Part Two:** 1  
He was waiting for her in the library when she walked through the doors two hours later then planned. There had been dishes to wash, floors to sweep, and a number of other chores to complete after dinner which men in Master Urqhart's position never think about, before Mary had been able to escape the kitchen.

He was mildly pleased to see her, from what she could interpret of his easy manner and friendly speech; and even though her red bangs as well as the cuffs of her white blouse were damp with perspiration, he approached her with a book of poetry in an outstretched hand.

It was William Blake and Mary had politely nodded her thanks at Master Urqhart's generosity in bringing it to her attention—though she had never been overly fond of poetry. He asked her to call him Algernon and chuckled, bidding her goodnight.

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He asked if she had enjoyed the book and Mary said she had. The religious themes hadn't been as pretentious as she had anticipated, but she didn't discuss any of that with him. He was in college and she was a maid in his mother's home.

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He found her in the dining room and asked for her assistance in the library. Madame Urqhart was occupied with guests in the parlour, and with large brown eyes Mary complied, following the man upstairs.

She couldn't call him Algernon and he laughed at her reluctance, saying that even the girls at school called him by his given name and he was tired of titles being thrown at him from every laundry maid and scullery girl. Mary still could not. He touched her cheek, tipping her chin.

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She wouldn't call him Algernon not even when she wanted to:

Not when he would find her in the kitchen with her hands in the sink; not when he wished to discuss his opinions on literature; not when he came in the library.

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Mary had her letter of reference from Madame Urqhart two days later. The good woman was confused but Mary was adamant, noting that she greatly wished to see more of London but had nothing ill to say of Madame. Mary would miss the lady but it was loyalty that forced her departure.

She didn't blame Blake or the library or Master Urqhart. It had been an error on her part—mere minutes of contact in hindsight—and she would not bring scandal into Madame's home. She didn't know where she could go now but go she must, and Madame had been so kind to her...

Mary had always been a loyal servant even at the expense of her heart.


	3. Annie and Bradshaw

**Characters:**Annie, Mr. Bradshaw  
**Rating:**R  
**Summary:**Quiet, weak, sickly Annie does a lot more than sleep at night.  
**Author's Notes:**Book-verse. I do not own these characters, they belong to Valerie Martin and R.L. Stevenson. Sexual situations.

She tried to be so quiet. Mr. Poole had the ears of a hawk--or so she believed--and as she stepped ever so slowly down the winding stairs she barely dared to breathe. It was a legitimate fear she fostered for if anyone were to find out how she had been conducting herself...how they had been conducting themselves...

Annie blushed prettily, dipping her head in the moonlit hallway. It was no use to rationalize the situation, even with herself. He could not come to her, not when she shared her room and bed with someone else, and Annie could not stop seeking him out. Tonight was no exception. The Doctor had had more dinner guests tonight than she could ever remember seeing and therefore an equal number of unimaginable pots and pans. Her back was an aching mass of flesh and bone and there were just too many places that she could not reach.

They lived dangerously. There was no lock on the kitchen door, no lock on the pantry, no door at all to conceal his cot under the stairs down a small, narrow hall past the kitchen itself, past the so cold pantry.

He was standing with his back to her when she entered the dark little hall he called his chamber but his hands were moving and Annie could see the steam clearly. A bucket of hot water rested at his feet and Bradshaw was wrapping his hands around scalding pieces of clean cloth, warming his flesh for her poor muscles. He had never asked her to return the favour and she never offered. He enjoyed touching her and she loved being touched.

She walked up to him, watching the lines of his body underneath his plain white shirt and woolen pants, biting her plump upper lip at the thought of reaching out for him again. He had told her the first time it was better to remain as they were. She understood, especially after seeing the hard glint in his blue eyes, a burning for something more, the pressure he had exerted on her mouth on their first and last kiss.

Annie turned her back to his and pushed an errant lock of mousy brown hair behind her ears. She wore it up, exposing her graceful neck, and only her cotton shift clothed her freckled body. She felt him turn and then he placed tingling fingers on her shoulders. Oh he had made them all laugh tonight, what with his jokes at the zeal of Mr. Zeal, and her body had shook, but now he made her purr.

The goose bumps faded as he went to work, focused now on the blades of her back and going lower. That was what she wanted, yes, why she kept walking the same path to the kitchen whenever fate allowed it.

Bradshaw's left hand wandered away from the small of her back and lingered at her hip long enough to give a reassuring rub, a squeeze, before deftly pulling up her covering with heavy pressings of his fingertips. Annie leaned back into his embrace, sighing, and able to do nothing but bring his right hand up to cup her slight breast. She pressed against him harder once his palm rested on her mound, his workman's fingers gently rubbing against her outer folds.

Sometimes Annie would imagine them lying on his bed--which he never allowed--facing him, and bringing her own hands to carress his chest and then the lower weight that he was now pressing against her backside. She had never seen his underwear--good Lord! She had never even seen his bare feet!--but through those sensible wool trousers Annie could feel much...when she did not wear much at all. She knew it was for their protection, for her protection, but there were times when she did not want to think about the future nor her place in society nor--

"Oh!"

Nothing mattered now as his fingers slipped inside, running along her hidden flesh and sensitive nerves. His breath was becoming ragged near her ear and he thrust upward, the ridge of his tented pants pushing upon the malleable muscles of her ass cheeks. Annie's eyes started to unfocus. It was hard to simply stare ahead into the darkened corners of the kitchen area when she wanted to undo his buttons, to leave some where Mrs. Kent and Mary would surely find them tomorrow.

Bradshaw had forgotten her breast and was fiercely holding her against his body. She had no anchor but to grab helplessly at his forearm trying to remember not to make a sound as he grazed a place inside she could not name but made all the other soreness of the day disappear. Annie could feel the blood rush to her face and soon Bradshaw was moving his own body more quickly, almost lifting Annie off her feet before taking a deep breath and stilling. She wanted a kiss but he placed his lips near her shoulder instead.

"Annie...Oh Annie soon, soon I promise."


	4. Peeping Toms

**Characters:**Mary, Hyde, mentions of Annie and Bradshaw  
**Rating:**R  
**Summary:**Mary ventures out of her bedroom again and witnesses something she'd rather not have seen by way of Hyde

She had though she heard his steps on the landing. When Mary sat up to find Annie gone she had become fearful and knowing the danger had quickly left the room to venture into the belly of the manor. The staircase had never seemed so high, the bottom so ominous, and her bare feet echoed loudly in her ears. Poole would soon be running out if she was not careful!

Her long red tresses hung like a shawl around her shoulders as Mary made her way to the kitchen with a sure sense of direction. Mister Hyde always came in at night through the kitchen door and the maid was convinced the sounds she was following were coming from there. If he had hurt Annie--she would not be able to stand by then. She would go straight to the Master and beg his help.

She pulled open the kitchen door softly but only dim darkness met her brown eyes. The noises were coming from the hall, past the pantry, near...

A hand slammed itself over her wondering mouth, another arm wrapped around her waist, and before Mary knew it she was being dragged off to the side into the darkness of the inner hallway.

"Hush now Marty. There's something I want you to see."

Her eyes widened, her limbs went stiff. His whispered breath was hot and angry against the side of her head as he finally came to a stop, pressing her body firmly into the wall. Oh God what had he done? What was she to witness? Where was Annie!

"Can you see them Mary? What do you think?"

She did not know what he was talking about and tried to move her lips away from the largeness of his palm but he simply pushed her chin further to the right. She heard it better then and squinted her eyes. Two people? There were two other people in the hallway.

"Don't scare them now Mary." His hand trailed away from her mouth down to her throat, where his thick fingers played upon the white scars of her youth.

Why was he showing her this? It was not fair. No, she didn't want to know about it! Mary clenched her eyes shut but she could not erase what she had just seen nor shut out the heavy sounds of passion Annie and Bradshaw were making.

"Have you ever seen that before Mary? Down in the gutter, did your parents ever do that in front of you?" He gave her a small shake and she bit her lip at his cruel words. His other hand splayed across her opposite hip but tightened around her middle as if Hyde had actually sensed her internal rebellion. She had lived so long in the haze of another's cruelty. Living in the Master's home Mary had believed she was finally free of it. Edward gave her another reminder while Annie bucked against Bradshaw's thrusts.

"Or did your father do that to you, little Mary Reilly?"


	5. Breathless

**Characters:** Mary  
**Rating:**PG  
**Summary:**Mary has a fright one night and wonders about curiosity...  
**Author's Note:** Valerie Martin owns Mary Reilly, not me. I own some pens.

Mary's lungs burned, her chest heaved up and down with the memory of his words behind her ear. She had a hand clamped over her mouth in an effory to block out her threatening sobs but Annie remained silent and still. Mary envied the girl's peace of mind.

Her back was pressed against the locked door--whether to hold herself upright or to keep him out she couldn't say. Had he followed her into the house? Mary had not heard his terrifying footsteps nor the doors opening after she had crossed the threshold but--Oh it was true! Edward Hyde came out of the dark like he was made of it!

She took in a deep shuddering breath, mentally scolding herself for her foolishness. Why had she needed to see? Dear Lord that poor child! But the risk. What would Mister Hyde have done to her if he had not been feeling so...charitable?

Could she doubt it? He was a violent man if observations could be correct and Mary had heard the coldness in his voice, how his tone spoke of a ruthless being. Did the Master know of whom he had employed?

This was the second time she had left the safety of her bed to enquire about the goings on in the manor and this was the second time she had almost been caught by the Master's assistant. Why was she drawn to this man?

She pulled her nightdress firmly around her thin body, a blanket of unease falling across her plain features. It was not her place to inform the Master on any matter but he needed to be told, didn't he? He needed to know what he had joined to himself.

Mary stepped carefully to the bed, slipping her long legs underneath the covers as gently as possible, praying that if Annie were to wake she would assume Mary had merely been on the pot.


	6. Outside Meetings

**Characters:**Mary Reilly, Edward Hyde, mentions of Dr. Jekyll  
**Rating:**PG  
**Summary:**Mary's thoughts as she comes face to face with Edward outside.  
**Author's Notes:**Bookverse. Valerie Martin owns Mary Reilly, not me.

_I won't hurt you Mary._

Your voice is ragged and low and you sound desperate for me to believe you. Your shoulders are stiff, hackles raised as if you had cause to fear violence from my person. Your hands--those blunt fingers and rough hairy knuckles--are hanging limply by your sides, further emphasizing your apparent submission.

I should know better and I do, but my pride keeps me here. I need to know you will go and leave my Master in peace, let this household begin to heal!

Oh your laughter is like glass and if I trusted the strength of my legs I would run but I cannot. Master's safety is my only concern now and I will not move without your assurances.


	7. Outside Meetings: His Thoughts

**Characters:**Edward Hyde, mentions of Dr. Jekyll and Mary Reilly  
**Rating:**PG13  
**Summary:**Edward's thoughts while facing Mary outside.  
**Author's Notes:**Bookverse. Follows with Prompt 14. See above disclaimer.

So sweet in the dark Mary, coming out here dressed like that. Bit o' linen nightgown and a wool shawl for cover...**But I see you.** If I had my way I'd see more--

Ah Henry 'tis no use! I've pushed you back far enough and now I'll get what we've both been hungering for. You could have done it long ago--See those huge brown eyes, God she wants it! Hear those words. She wants to protect you, her _Master_! Bah! She'll learn Henry.

You keep your chin high Mary. Little white dress and you think you're better than me! Should know your place by now...So yes I 'll take you to your _Master_. Just step into the laboratory and we'll both see what he'll do.


	8. The Hearth

**Stand Alone Piece**

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If Mrs. Kent or Mr. Poole had known how much enjoyment Mary received from cleaning out the hearth in Doctor Jekyll's study they would have called her daft or worse and suspected she was nipping some of the Doctor's tonics on the side. Maybe she was a little mad; she had certainly thought so after the realization of enjoyment had hit her.

It wasn't that she liked having soot coat her arms or coal dust cover her face and carefully washed aprons. Mary didn't always look forward to scrubbing the black off with boiled kitchen water until her skin was rubbed raw, red, and chafed. Sometimes a feeling of freedom would surround her , when it was just her in the silence of an empty kitchen and the water could wash away the remnants of the day; but mostly the time spent doing so was a chore, time she could have used to catch up on some well-needed sleep.

What started Mary's heart beating as she climbed up those twisting stairs, what set her breath to quicken each time she set her bucket and brushes down, was the hope that perhaps the Doctor would still be reading in his easy chair or shipping his sherry or even writing at his desk while she worked. She would ask like always if he'd mind and he would say of course not and Mary would once again set her face towards the cold hearth, happy knowing that her Master was nearby.

And maybe one day he would take Mary's hand again and tell her that he trusted her like no other. And if her face wasn't too dirty maybe he would touch her chin and say he wouldn't know what to do without her. And maybe if it wasn't too late yet all the staff were safe asleep, the Doctor would offer her a glass and ask to hear about Mary's life again in that gentle way he had of speaking. Then she wouldn't have to get up at five—No, the Doctor would give her the morning off and they could both walk in St. James's Park together.

That's why Mary enjoyed cleaning the hearth in Doctor Jekyll's study: the possibility of what could be, even if it was an impossible dream.


	9. If She Only Knew

Little Miss Mary has been wandering again. She listens for my exits and entrances though she would claim it isn't so, using her worry for dear sweet Jekyll as an excuse to uncover my comings and goings. She rested here—right here!—along the rail, pressing her girlish body and starched cottons against the unforgiving metal. Her smell still lingers for those like me.

Those like me? Bah! No one would look twice upon that frail bit of maid! No one else would see those small fists clench and let her pass by unscathed. I was magnanimous! I could have crushed that tart where she stood, nothing but a shawl and night dress for protection…

And how fierce she tried to be! Miss Mary standing up to mean ol' Edward Hyde! Ha! Lifting her chin like Jekyll's rooms and possessions were holy relics. **I** keep her _Master_ in the lap of luxury he's so used to. These stairs are mine. This kitchen she likes to hide in is mine. This whole damn house belongs to me! Even that little room of hers way way up on the third floor. Oh yes, I know where she sleeps, the room she creeps from when she thinks this home of hers is secure. Miss Mary keeps her short vigils for the _Doctor_.

If she only knew.

I could have stopped her outings at the beginning. Chasing her through the laboratory had been divine, watching those pale feet scamper then run like the Devil was on her trail. Hair streaming in a flowing red ribbon and I was so close to grabbing, to clutching that mess and pulling Little Miss Mary to her knees. But no! I let her leave to continue persecuting me! To continue following and judging me in the shadows.

So maybe tonight I'll wait a bit longer on the stairs, drinking in her scent, letting it wash over me, and wait for Mary to peek out that room of hers again. I'd wave. And those brown mud puddle eyes of hers would leap out. And we'd start the chase again.


	10. Sent to the Vatican and what does she do

**Author's Notes: This **came from an LXG rp I was once a part of where I played little Mary herself. She was sent to the Vatican by her employer--one villian by the name of Moriarty. Father Marcus is an original character, not owned by me but so evily delicious!!! Thanks to those who are reading this fic. I never ask for reviews--since I write for my own pleasure--but as I recently checked my stats I've seen that others are enjoying these little stories just as much as I am, so thanks!

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She tried not to clench her eyes too tightly; she tried not to do anything at all. The constant hushing whisperings in her ear made that difficult, as did the muscled body lying alongside her own on the plain bed: a single. How it had come to this point and why she had ultimately agreed to meet in his chambers at this hour Mary couldn't recall right now, not with Father Marcus' fingers stroking over her flushed flesh.

He had smiled when she entered the room, taking her hand and ushering her first to the hearth. Soft touches followed, innocent touches, where he would smooth out the layers of her long red hair, following it's wave down to where it ended at the edge of her hip. Mary knew deep down that this night would not end as innocently and as she caught a glimpse of another smile playing upon Marcus' full mouth as they moved to the bed Mary realized that he knew this as well.

And so she tried to hold her breath when she rested her head against one pillow which smelled of his dark hair, but that lasted as long as the priest's self-control and at the first touch of his hand on her shoulder Mary's chest began to rapidly rise and fall. His deep voice urged for caution and yet the words spoke of her beauty and gentleness and—above all—that she had nothing to fear from his love nor her own desire. It would be a lie, after all, to say she was indifferent to the warm press against her throat or the way he moved his attentions to the neckline of her gown and the simple ribbon that held the material closed. Every nerve tingled at each caress but whether from fear of the unknown or her believed sinful lust Mary did not know.

She turned to him when he requested it, lips slightly parted and exhaling—unable to do much of anything when Marcus pushed her sleeve down, his hand quickly sliding to cover an exposed breast. Mouth fast upon hers to cover the gasps, Mary could offer no resistance as his weight rested over her unexpectedly: a broad frame pressing down against small angles.

His white collar was nowhere to be seen.


	11. Vatican Part Two

**Part One**

She couldn't let anyone else take her laundry this week, she couldn't let any of the scurrying chamber maids or knotty-limbed, lumbering laundresses see the evidence of her fall from innocence, her shame. She was utterly ruined now; no more chances. Any thought of work outside of service, of having her own home and…perhaps…ever having her own family, were now gone like so much ash up a chimney.

And the stain would not come out! As if God was marking her for the scarlet woman she was: how dare she sin in this Holy See! how dare she drag a man of the cloth into her unholy lust! The eyes of the Lord were upon Mary and they saw one word emblazoned: WHORE.

Burn it! She would have to burn this nightgown and purchase another…when? Staff were never paid as regularly here as she had been at home in London, and even those precious few afternoons off were filled with expected prayer meetings and unexpected kitchen duties. But some good hot water—not the tepid wash water supplied by sullen little boys before dawn had ever even crested the horizon—would return the cheap cotton to it's former pristine state: white and clean and the eyes could forget.

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**Part Two**

It had taken her all day but Mary had finally succeeded in sneaking away from Senora Gribardi—the head maid on the fourth floor—to silently creep into the second chapel where soft candlelight illuminated the simple stone room. Monseignor Ambrosius would be in the confessional tonight, a kindly, ageing, hard of hearing sort of priest who listened to the sins and woes of most of the Vatican's lower staff.

Mary took a breath and pushed aside the dark velvet curtain, sitting gently down upon the cushion and tapping lightly on the small window. If she could just get the words off her chest, just explain what had happened even if her confessor would never really hear the story of her fall, then perhaps a measure of this _guilt_ would ease off of her shoulders.

"Bless me Monseignor for I have sinned. It has been five days since my last confession."

"Eh? And how long has it been since your last confession my child?"

"…Five days Monseignor."

He sounded sick, even with the confusing Italian with which Mary still struggled.

"Monseignor—"

"Eh? And what have you come to confess?"

Mary took a breath, her hands busy twisting her apron, cheeks red in the darkness.

"I-I've made a very bad error—"

"Terror? Eh? What are you afraid of my child?"

"Not terror Monseignor, error! I have sinned very badly."

"Eh?"

"I have lain with a man Monseignor! I have fornicated in this City of God! I've…I've led a man of the cloth to sin! I have ruined myself!"

Mary bowed her head, trembling, pressing the heel of her left palm to her eyes in hopes of stopping the build up of tears. It was a release but she wasn't finished; there was someone else she needed to confess for even if he would never admit it.

"Eh? Say three Benedictions and a Rosary and light a candle to Saint Theresa before you leave."

"B-But I'm not finished Monseignor—"

"Eh! I know all about your sins Mary."

In that moment Mary's countenance portrayed a range of emotions, the worst of which was abject humiliation as she opened the curtain to race away only to face Father Marcus, the collar of his cassock pulled up over his lips to disguise his voice. And now, his laughter.

"Father! How could—"

"I am always surprised at the sorts of things women confess Mary," he let the collar slip down his chin, a chilling smirk coating his face. "Even you my dear. You haven't led me anywhere."

Mary's cheeks burned underneath the drip of shameful tears sliding from wet eyelashes. She gripped the sides of the confessional intending to pull herself up when the bigger man's hand snatched out to grasp her upper arm.

"But I'll be leading you somewhere right now."

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to be continued….


	12. Laboratory A little series

These two are part of a series based on the near-end of the book Mary Reilly. We never got to see the extent of Edward's violence and hate in the movie towards the little maid and well…the book does a great job of that. Loves to Valerie Martin!!!

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**Part One**

…But his countenance remained amused for her benefit, knowing it would only infuriate her more, shake that little prim and proper moralist body of hers. She wanted to see _her master?_

"I can't let you see him unless you ask me proper." Oh yes, that would goad her. Would Edward finally see the outrage Mary held so tightly within her or….Well then. She could beg after all. Somehow that didn't make the man any happier and his gaze darkened with impatience and hatred as he gestured towards the door of the laboratory with only a tilt of his chin. He wasn't finished with this chit, this upstart, and his hands clenched tightly in the pockets of his shabby coat, ragged from his nights on the run. It was the coat that cocksucker Poole looked down upon with such disdain. What did Edward care about their thoughts? Weaklings! Useless! Unworthy of his skill or talent and so bitterly ungrateful!

Little Mary was just like the rest and Jekyll wouldn't stop him tonight. She'd learn who her Master really was and he'd enjoy teaching her.

"Lead the way."

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**Part Two**

She was scared. Oh how she hated this man! How she hated everything about him and the horror, the pain, he had brought down upon her Master! And yet somehow she found the strength to stand up to him, to once again renounce this claim he had that he was her master. Utter lies that she would never, ever allow! And still he thought she would keep her tongue in her head?! He! A murderer and a fraud! A thief!

"Please sir," the words were like bile in her mouth but they had to be said. "Let me see my master."

Mary's back went stiff at his glare, fighting the urge to turn and run back into the house, to call Bradshaw or Mr. Poole. But Edward Hyde would not keep her away from the Doctor. She would speak with him now, beg him to leave this man to the police and Scotland yard, to ask why Edward Hyde deserved such protection.

With a will of shaking iron, Mary left the courtyard to enter the laboratory, her cloak shifting around her shoulders. It only covered her shift but speed had been of the essence, though now she didn't like the sound of his breath so close behind her.


	13. Before Jekyll part one

"Do you like books Mary ?"

She was a few days shy of her fifteenth birthday, thin and gawky—traits she would never lose in womanhood—and now Madame Urquhart's son was addressing her. He had recently returned home after his first term at King's College, his blond curls desperately in need of a barber, or so Madame had teasingly informed him after her warm welcome. His cheeks had filled out since the last time she had seen him, and after some nights of restful sleep he didn't seem as tired or sallow as he had that first evening.

"Yes sir."

She had been polishing the filigreed silver when he entered the kitchen but his presence required her to cease and stand. Her hands were stained and she tried to hide them in the folds of her apron without seeming to be hiding anything at all. It was a simple, straightforward question but even so it surprised the young maid. She could hear the scullery girls whispering in the next room. He probably could as well.

"Come up to the library after dinner then. I've found one that may interest you."

"Yes sir. Thank you sir."

He left and the giggling began in earnest. Mary shushed the younger servers once and returned to the cutlery, a blush spreading across her pale face. The sounds faded and she picked up a fork to resume her duties.

"Don't you four have potatoes to peel ?"


	14. Before Jekyll part two

1  
He was waiting for her in the library when she walked through the doors two hours later then planned. There had been dishes to wash, floors to sweep, and a number of other chores to complete after dinner which men in Master Urqhart's position never think about, before Mary had been able to escape the kitchen.

He was mildly pleased to see her, from what she could interpret of his easy manner and friendly speech; and even though her red bangs as well as the cuffs of her white blouse were damp with perspiration, he approached her with a book of poetry in an outstretched hand.

It was William Blake and Mary had politely nodded her thanks at Master Urqhart's generosity in bringing it to her attention—though she had never been overly fond of poetry. He asked her to call him Algernon and chuckled, bidding her goodnight.

2  
He asked if she had enjoyed the book and Mary said she had. The religious themes hadn't been as pretentious as she had anticipated, but she didn't discuss any of that with him. He was in college and she was a maid in his mother's home.

3  
He found her in the dining room and asked for her assistance in the library. Madame Urqhart was occupied with guests in the parlour, and with large brown eyes Mary complied, following the man upstairs.

She couldn't call him Algernon and he laughed at her reluctance, saying that even the girls at school called him by his given name and he was tired of titles being thrown at him from every laundry maid and scullery girl. Mary still could not. He touched her cheek, tipping her chin.

4  
She wouldn't call him Algernon not even when she wanted to:

Not when he would find her in the kitchen with her hands in the sink; not when he wished to discuss his opinions on literature; not when he came in the library.

5  
Mary had her letter of reference from Madame Urqhart two days later. The good woman was confused but Mary was adamant, noting that she greatly wished to see more of London but had nothing ill to say of Madame. Mary would miss the lady but it was loyalty that forced her departure.

She didn't blame Blake or the library or Master Urqhart. It had been an error on her part—mere minutes of contact in hindsight—and she would not bring scandal into Madame's home. She didn't know where she could go now but go she must, and Madame had been so kind to her...

Mary had always been a loyal servant even at the expense of her heart.


	15. Demon Lover

**A/N:** This snippet is was created for my challenge on sadechallenge on livejournal. It was not what I expected to write and it is longer than I originally planned...but I feel it worked out in the end. Enjoy!

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She had not expected him to be awake. No; that was not right. Dr. Jekyll was always awake it seemed, working with such dedication in the laboratory, walking the floor of his study raw night after night as the pressure of his worries kept him from his bed. And there were worries—though no one but she was privy—but they often kept her awake as well, wondering if the next time she looked upon his tired countenance would be the last. What Mary had not expected was for her employer…her Master…her obsession…to enter the dark, midnight kitchen while her dress was hanging halfway to the floor.

Mrs. Kent had left quite a while ago, left while Mary was still cleaning the grate, replacing the coals and washing the soot from the marble. But the dear old woman had left the pot boiling for her, knowing that the maid would be tired, weakened, and dirty after her strenuous day serving everyone in the household including herself. With the belief that the house had bedded down for the night, that Poole was entombed in his perpetually cold bedchamber and that Bradshaw was enjoying his night off with the knife boy's sister Grace, Mary folded her filthy apron and unbuttoned the bodice of her linen servants dress; letting the soiled fabric fall over her slight hips, Mary stood before the still steaming cast iron pot in her sweat-soaked cotton chemise and simple corset. The little starched cap that lived on top of her head met the same fate as her apron but her ash and smut covered hands could not bear to release her multitude of fiery locks, not when such dirt could be transferred to her only redeemable feminine feature.

She dipped a drying towel into the water, sighing deeply as the heat encased her slim hands and sore fingers, washing off the accumulated dust and wear of the day. Raising the cloth, Mary dabbed it against her damp cheeks, nose, scrubbing rigorously as she reached her shoulders and down her arms. The act of touching, of feeling the friction along her skin, was decadent for such an untried woman—until the breathing coming from behind broke through her overwhelmed senses.

Mary stiffened, the cloth clenching in her fist. Should she finish her bath or turn around and take responsibility for her humiliation? No. Depending on who was standing so silently behind her perhaps Mary should run for the stairs like her very life depended on it.

"Continue."

The water dribbling between her elbows may as well have been January icicles, her sudden fear drawing away the comforting warmth and raising bumps upon her pale flesh. The voice was strained, harsh, and, most disturbing of all, completely recognizable. How could Mary fail to recognize the voice of one who had filled her closest held dreams and fantasies? Had she not stood in front of the mirror and wondered if Dr. Jekyll would like anything she saw?

Swallowing, Mary resumed her washing, dragging the cloth across and around her joints and stark bones, bringing out the red in her newly flushed skin. She had never disobeyed an order issued by the Doctor, had done everything he asked even to the extent of travelling to that-that _place_, reporting to that woman for the Master's peace of mind. At that time there had been some private questions, private worry at the sight of all those women—of young girl's living to sell themselves and please strangers in the night. But Mary had done as she was asked, and she did so now, knowing that she would do anything for the man whom she called Master.

Her soft brown eyes were wide, trying to focus on the slick copper range before her and not the sensations crawling up her clothed thighs. She loved him as she should yes? She worked, slept, lived within his home. Without the Doctor Mary would have nothing, but…But was it to much to wish that he was currently watching her every movement with as much feeling as she usually watched all of his?

The warm water slipped beneath her chemise, mixing with the sweat now frozen against her stomach, and Mary moved her attention to the back of her neck. Her mouth fell open then, holding back a strangled cry as a large hand encircled her scarred wrist. Panting breath in her ear and an unbuttoned shirt at her back.

"I—Your hair. Take it—Let me take it—."

Her shoulders automatically hunched, eyes fluttering as the hand—such gentleness—wound it's way over her nape and into the bound waves of her hair. The handful of pins came out easy enough, clinking onto the range, but it only unharnessed her thick braid and Mary found herself dropping the wash cloth as a desperate sound echoed from the Doctor's throat.

"I have no strength around you Mary." She inhaled a shaky breath as his hand left her hair to trail the ties at the small of her back; the other hand moved around her waist, dancing awkwardly across her corset until she was trapped in his embrace, his palm pressing flat. "And you have such power. You shouldn't be here," her body jerked as the Doctor pulled at the stays, her dress slipping around her knees. "You should be in your bower, safe, protected. In the light of day I would have been surrounded. I would have argued with—." But how could she leave now? How could she run with the layers of cotton around her ankles and under things slipping lower and lower with each tug of his hand? How could she leave with the scruff of his mouth fighting to simply clamp down upon the bare skin of her neck?

He did not stop her as she turned around—he would not, Mary was sure. His haunted eyes confirmed it though his calloused fingers held on to the fabric still covering her small body. She could leave now, run back to her shared bed with Annie in the attic. It would be possible to push these feelings aside and the memory of the Doctor's hands would fade into dreams over time…

Mary lifted her chin, bringing her lips within a hairsbreadth of the Doctor's as she lifted her damp hands to rest upon his bared chest. The muscles beneath her fingers trembled, the lines of his jaw stretched and tightened like a lion in wait. But Mary was no lamb.

She had not imagined this far. She had no expectations when their mouths finally met, had nothing to compare it to or contrast it with. What Mary had not expected was a damn of sorts to break the Doctor's resolve as he held her tightly with a heated desperation, lifting her away from the range and her clothes in a heap around her shoes, pressing her against the kitchen table as her own hands fought to hold on. He had been in the laboratory. The scent of chemicals and cold metal were written upon his open shirt and—Was that his evening coat draped over Mrs. Kent's char? Dear Lord! Where was his assistant? She opened her mouth to question, the hands clinging to his shoulders pushing back to ask, but the Doctor was beyond stopping now that Mary had so blatantly acquiesced to his desires. They were her desires as well.

His tongue sought entrance as she tried to speak, turning her unspoken words into gasps, massaging, searching her mouth with more skill than even he felt capable of and which Mary would never have believed possible. Her head fell back as the hands on her hips became more insistent, pushing her further back onto the table while equally trying to push her light bloomers down over her thin legs. Mary smoothed her hands over the Doctor's dark brown hair, nails skimming the scalp as his lips cascaded over her arched throat. A sudden rip of material sounded the separation of her corset strings and Mary found her soft, unbound breasts pressed breathlessly against the Doctor's lean chest. She was being laid back upon the table now, her thighs being pressured wide as his expensive linen pants stepped between them; the realization hit her with just enough time to put a hand out on the worn wood to steady herself, but she still felt the loss of her hands on his face.

"Oh how you affect me Mary." Wet, open kisses dotted her pulse. Mary blinked rapidly, not knowing what to say nor trusting herself to say it correctly. This would change—"You will stay with me always Mary?" One hand left her waist to travel lower, merely brushing against her solid ache as a means of reaching the buttons of his trousers. "We could leave this place, simply the two of us on the continent…" But his head had fallen forward again, cradled in the crook of her neck as her hips bucked. The Doctor's hand had returned, fingers caressing, probing, while an unknown weight pressed against the soft flesh of her inner thigh. Slipping along her slickness, Mary released a soft cry as one of his talented fingers sheathed itself inside her tight passage, touching a place that Mary herself had never been bold enough to touch before.

"—Henry!" Panting, rapid thumping of heartbeats, whimpers and stilled breaths: who the owner was Mary could not tell, only that the Doctor's touch was gone too quickly, replaced with another burning pressure that had Mary's jaw clenching, eyes wide, staring up into the ceiling behind the Doctor's head. A litany of phrases were being whispered into the skin below her ear but Mary could not discern the meaning; the pressure was so great but so was the pain, caught between the splitting sensations in the apex of her thighs, the bite of wood against her back, and the weight of the Doctor's body upon her own.

A change was occurring. The Doctor was emitting a low gasping noise as his movements became more erratic, hips pulsating, losing what rhythm they had as he tried to raise himself up to look down on her flushed face and wet eyes. Their gazes met: Mary's asking without a sound, the Doctor's trying to answer with moving lips that shuddered and gasped and—Oh no. No, she had to be mistaken Just a flick of the candlelight, a shadow. Dr. Jekyll would never look at her like that, not at a time like this. But…but she had seen something within his muted grey eyes, something turn and gleam…and leer?

"I—I would never let him…hurt you…Mary!" The Doctor's hands curled almost painfully into her upper arms, holding Mary down, keeping her close and her torso still as his organ spilled his seed into her belly. Mary felt a surging wetness, her breath escaping in one torrid heave as the Doctor collapsed on top of her, silver lights dancing in front of her eyes as she vainly fought to remain conscious.

There is a moment when she imagines she is floating. A creak of wood and rail as she turns her head against solid flesh and bone, the pain between her legs still new, the scent of blood and whiskey nearby: Mary cannot fathom how she came to be reclining upon the Doctor's chaise in the gaslight of his private study. Her thighs are sticky and she's sore but it does not stop her from trying to sit up, from trying to see the man seated so smugly in the Master's chair—a sweet-scented ring of cigar smoke trailed around his head while eyes seemingly made of the flame they reflected regarded her with more than amusement.

"…Doctor?"

"Ah Mary. He took everything, didn't he? You ended up with the short stick yet again."

Mary's jaw clenched imperceptivity, her hands moving up suddenly to cover her lower nakedness, a wash of shame covering her pale features. A low rumble of laughter followed. What had happened to the Doctor?

"Do you even know why he came to you tonight Mary?" She watched, silent, as he brought a bottle of local spirits to his young mouth. "After all these months of watching you wash his floor and collect his laundry and fulfill every _other_ need under the bloody sun, do you have the slightest idea why he came to you tonight?" He had left the chair with a grunt, moving in his quick shuffling way towards the lamps, and a lump of fear caught in Mary's throat as the thought that he very well may burn the house down around everyone's ears flashed inside her head. But that was before she noticed the make up of his clothes. The white shirt had been ripped open, thread dangling where buttons once resided as well as finely sewed hemlines. His stout legs were pushing at the seams of the far too long dark trousers though the front patch was opened, only his small clothes distorting the view of his manhood. Mary turned her gaze away as Edward's once again found hers. She did not want to hear his vicious answers. Was she to die in this room tonight? Far better a fate than waking Poole and having said butler find her dishabille with the Doctor's assistant. But then Edward's fingers were crushing against her chin, forcing her head back to look up at him. He was quick. Mary had not heard him move away from the mantle, and now his thumb was pressing on her lips, pushing them back against the sharpness of her teeth.

His eyes were wild, not dulled by the whiskey at all, and Mary had no choice now but to return his gaze, to look into those murky pools.

"He came because I wanted ye Mary." He was purposely enhancing his brogue now and she felt mocked. "All his high an' mighty talk an' he was a slave to his lusts just like any other man! Dinnae want you hurt he said. Bah!" he hissed, pushing her away with one harsh movement, discarding his shirt with another while she watched wide-eyed from the lounge. "Didn't want you sullied is more like it! The proper doctor couldn't bear the thought of another man's leavings on his oh so precious chambermaid!" A light trail of black hair followed the muscles of his chest and down his stomach, further than her eyes could see. He was stocky, broader than the Doctor, and Mary suddenly knew for sure that he could strangle her with just one of those sinewy arms of his. Strangle? Flatten. But violence of that sort was clearly not what the man had on his mind as he approached her for a second time.

"I never thought you were as new as he did Mary." One of his rough hands had begun to infiltrate itself between her closed knees and before she could open her mouth to yell Edward was kneeling beside her, his free hand locked over her thin lips. He was stronger than she and they both knew it. "But from the smell of this mess he made I suppose Henry was right for once. And I can't remember a time when I was more pleased to be wrong." Edward's brutish fingers were scraping her lower thigh, rubbing against the stains of her maidenhead and the Doctor's release that had leaked out and down.

"But he was clumsy Mary Reilly, your Master." He lowered his head to hers, their foreheads meeting and spicy breath crawling over her throat. "He simply thought of the end. His end." It was incredibly hard to clench her thighs as his hand progressed up, and behind his palm Mary let out a short gasp of pain as the strain became too much, her legs loosening of their own accord. He was quickly cupping her mound, his fingers caressing along her very tender, soaked intimate folds. "Go ahead and blame him for your pain," Edward turned her head, his tongue licking a solid line down to the coarse material of her chemise, the tip idling over the raised lines of her white scars. "The _Doctor_ has kept himself locked away for so long; his practical experience is sorely lacking." A flick of his thumb had Mary's hips bucking, her eyes flashing hurt confusion as an unfamiliar sensation moved through her limbs. A guttural chuckle followed, his mouth moving once again upon her collarbone.

"Fortunately for you Mary, mine is not."

The pad of his thumb began to move, to rub, and while she did not know what the conclusion would be Mary's stomach and spine screamed for him to continue. Exploring with confidence, Edward's fingers kept up a rhythm through her slickness as she fought for breath, the wet sounds of her body growing louder in the quiet study. "Are you scared Mary? You haven't said no." The maid stiffened, aware of Edward's face above hers again. Slowly, her worried brown eyes travelled down to the hand still bandaged across her mouth, and, just as slowly, the assistant released her completely, stepping away from the chaise and her ache, bringing a bloodied finger up to his mouth. "Well?"

Mary swallowed, wanting but unable to avert her gaze as he sucked the liquid and juices from his fingers. She could not put a dam on the feelings rushing through her body, on the fresh knowledge of carnality that the Doctor had begun but Edward had awakened even though such ignorance had done her well these last few months of servitude.

"I—I don't want--." Her voice was breathy, fractured. "I'm not afraid."

She watched his lips curl back, his tongue flashing out between two gleaming rows of teeth, and his large hands slipping over his torso to sit on the waist of his trousers.

"Sit up Mary and take down your hair." It was not a request.

It took a moment but Mary placed her hands under her back, pushing herself upright then raising shaking hands to the strap of her braid. The strands separated swiftly, her fingers moving as quickly as she could manage under the heated glare of Edward's gaze. The thick mass fell silently around her shoulders, down her back, and before another breath could be drawn Edward was disposing of his last barriers. Her face flushed, the embarrassed red sheen reflecting her innocent nature as the assistant strode back to the chaise, his shaft protruding hard and erect from a nest of wiry black hairs. Mary did not know what to expect when one meaty hand wound into her red tresses, her head pulled back.

"He barely touched you Mary." Edward's voice was gruff, demanding, as he looked down on her, tightening his hold on her scalp. "You didn't touch him at all. You'll touch me. Now." Another pause and another moment passed but he would not ease her hand not allow Mary to break his gaze, forcing her to reach for his body blindly. She inhaled sharply as her fingertips grazed his legs, running along his hair and obvious musculature, slowly moving up and in to his desired destination. This time there was something to compare: the eel Mrs. Kent had ordered brought to the table, the eel that held life throughout it's slick body, squirming within Mary's grasp, jumping at the contact of skin on skin. She thought Edward's jaw flexed. She thought she saw those fiery eyes become half-mast as her hands skimmed over the wider head, the slit dribbling fluid onto her now stilled digits. How was something so large to fit inside her small body? Surely—

"Is it my turn now Mary?" On her back, his solid heaviness covering and her chemise being ripped in two: Mary could only shudder as Edward's mouth fell across her near-transparent, puckered nipples. There were teeth but then his hand was pushing down again, flicking again, and the teeth did not matter. When he began to push, bringing her leg up to hook over his hip, Mary's gasp did not deter or slow his actions. Neither did her nails as they raked across his shoulders. He reared back from her chest, burrowing his chin into her neck, growling. "Yes Mary! Hurt me! Tear me! Bite me Mary, bite me!"

There would have been time to argue, to think, but Edward surged forward, grinding, and Mary's teeth sank into the flesh connecting throat to shoulder. He laughed, loudly, as his release filled her womb, mixing with the Doctor's, mixing with her blood.

"You will stay with me always Mary? We could leave this place, simply the two of us on the continent, away from the cold and the dirt?"

She watched his visage, a dawning horror descending on her own as the heavy footfalls of Poole echoed down the hallway. And as her large eyes watched Edward laughed and laughed and laughed.


End file.
